


Bottles and Blades

by Psyduckling



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Aged up characters, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism (mentioned), I'm Sorry, M/M, Self-Harm, Soulmate AU, Suicide (mentioned), dark au, this is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 13:58:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12772527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psyduckling/pseuds/Psyduckling
Summary: soulmate au: Person A is the only one who is able to see Person's B tattoo which shows how they die.Richie can't hold his trashmouth for one time too many.





	Bottles and Blades

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired with this post: http://katieattherink.tumblr.com/post/167498798582/i-read-a-post-the-other-day-positing-alternate
> 
> We all know where this is going, don't we?

“Come on, Richie! Can you by chance be anymore clumsy?!” Stan huffed, looking at his shirt now all covered in orange juice.

He shot him an annoyed look and rushed upstairs to change. His parents were away for the weekend, so Richie offered to spend some time with him. They planned on going to the cinema for the newest horror movie and they were already late because Richie clearly hasn't ever heard about “being on time” and now _this_.

“I’m trying my best!” Richie answered following him.

“And you’re really good at pissing me off!”

“Aww, Stannie, isn’t that why you love me after all?” Richie leaned against the doorframe of his friend’s room smiling goofily.

“I will have to think about it.” he only rolled his eyes at his friend, but the irritation in his voice was gone.

Richie followed with his eyes the smooth movement of Stan’s hands while taking his shirt off, revealing his pale slim torso. He couldn’t stop looking at him with sole admiration. He liked him, no denying. They’ve been friends for so long it was completely natural for them to dress up in front of the other. But something unusual caught his eyes. On the right side of Stan’s back, under the ribcage, there was a small drawing of something silver. The words slipped out of his mouth before he even recognized what that was.

“Wow, Stan the Man got a tattoo? And hasn’t told me about it?” He exclaimed, walking closer and trying to look at this from the better angle. He had his hand pressed to his chest in mockingly dramatic way, but when he finally realized what he was looking at, the hand dropped by his side.

“Wow, a razor? That’s an edgy choice, my man.” He was surprised to say the least.

No answer was coming, so he raised his eyes from the smiling blade. Stan was looking at him, frozen in his place, with the clean shirt in his hands.

“What tattoo? What razor?” His eyebrows were furrowed, adding more suspicion to his question. “What are you talking about?”

“About this.” Richie said but couldn’t help but feel uneasiness rising to his chest. This situation was getting weirder and weirder. But he continued anyway. “This right here.”

The dark haired boy observed as Stan walked slowly to the mirror that hung on the door of his wardrobe and turned around to have a look on his back. He saw him run his hand up and down his skin, but nothing which would suggest that Stan noticed it too.

“I don’t see anything.” He just said.

And that’s when it hit Richie. His heart stopped for a moment and when he felt the beating again it was muffled and slow and heavy and Richie bit his lip and turned his gaze away. He should have done that before, he thought. Bit his god forsaken lip.

"Richie?”

“Ithinkwearesoulmates.” Richie answered after a moment, blurted it all at once, way too quiet. He almost hasn’t heard himself. Stan approached him but he had no courage in him to look up.

“What did you say?” He asked, but his voice cracked.

“I said that I think we are soulmates.”

That wasn’t supposed to be this way. People should be happy and excited for this moment, not being afraid of what they may see. A razor? That spoke for itself. And was now speaking very clear and very loud.

“And you’re saying this, because you see a tattoo of a razor on my back?” Stan was again in front of the mirror, still scrutinizing his body for at least one hint of it.

“Yes-” Richie started carefully, not wanting to say too much again, but he’s not able to finish anyway, because Stan just bursted into laughter. It wasn’t his pure joyful laughter that Richie knew and loved. It was empty and emotionless and as loud as it was, it sent shivers down Richie’s spine.

“I don’t see anything.” He repeats, after the moment. “You know what that means?”

“Yes Stan, I know and I think-”

“It means that you’re lying.” Richie blinked few times, his mouth still opened. He wasn’t sure if it was the tone in which Stan spoke to him or the words he said that left him speechless. Lying? He couldn’t even imagine that Stan would accuse him of such thing, of lying about this topic.

“You are joking” Stan continued, he was articulating slowly and clearly, just as if he was thinking every word through before verbalizing it. “You are joking and this is very cruel joke, Rich. And I want you to leave now.” Stan’s last words were followed by him finally putting on his shirt, but he never turned himself to face Richie.

“Get out.”

“Stan please, listen to me-” Richie tried to come up to his friend, and touch him, put his hand on his shoulder, but when he met his gaze in the mirror and their eyes locked for a moment, he froze.

“I said, get out.”

* * *

 

Richie had no idea how long he had been sitting in the corridor of his house next to the phone; it had to be at least few hours judging by how dark it’s become, too dark to even look at the clock. Since he got back home he called Stan few times, or maybe more, he gave up on counting after the seventh time he was listening to monotonous signals and no answer whatsoever. He grew more and more nervous with every call, finally getting up and pacing there and back again while biting on the tip of his thumb.

It shouldn’t have happened. Richie should have kept his mouth shut; what on earth has made him think that Stan of all people would get a tattoo of something like this? Congratulations, Tozier, on being the most tactful and observant person ever walking on this planet.

Richie clenched his fists, the anger filling him, but all he felt was helplessness and fear. He didn’t want to leave Stan, but he was frightened that his presence would do more harm than good for Uris. He said he didn’t believe him, but something in his voice and in his appearance made Richie not buy it. If only Stan answered one call…

The dark haired boy caught himself staring at the telephone laying quietly on the shelf, almost like pretending it’s not there. He made one step forward and raised his hand to pick the receiver up but eventually backed off and rushed to the door, putting his shoes on on the way there. The moment he put his hand on the doorknob loud sound ringed, filling the silence of his empty house. He ran, nearly tripping on his own untied shoelaces, and quickly grabbed the phone.

“Yes?” Is all he said, not realizing how hoarse his voice was. He waited for what seemed like minutes for the answer, almost assuming this is only stupid joke, but before he hung up, he added “Stan? Is that you?”

“Please, come.” His friend’s voice was begging and Richie felt his legs becoming cotton candy, barely keeping him in standing position. “I’ll be right there, I promise.”

* * *

 

When Richie arrived, every light in Uris’ home was turned off except for one on the first floor. He quickly ran to the doorstep and didn’t even bother ringing the doorbell, he just pushed the door, not really surprised it was open, and stepped inside. He immediately rushed upstairs where a weak trail of light guided him to where his friend was.

Stan was sitting on his bed, his back facing the entrance to his room. He didn’t move when Richie came inside, not even a single hint that he noticed. The dark haired boy swallowed loudly, his heart running miles per second.

“Stan?” He started, slowly approaching him.

“Stan, I’m so sorry for what I’ve said. I shouldn’t have-”

“Take off your shirt.” Stan interrupted him leisurely his voice so different from what he has heard on the phone.

Richie got caught off guard with those words, he actually wasn’t feeling very comfortable, not understanding what’s going on around him. His first and natural response would be twisting everything into a joke, something on the back of his mind telling him that if Stan calmed himself then it’s completely okay for him to be himself again. He wanted to pick on this choice of words, but swallowed his terrible joke as soon as Stan got up and turned around to face him.

His light curls were all messed up, as if the boy had ran his fingers numerous times through them with no specific intentions. He was pale like a moon, his mouth open and the lower lip trembling, but the worst (Richie couldn’t get rid of this image for few next weeks) were his eyes, opened so widely they seemed like they’re going to fall out any moment, shaking slightly, but finally locking on Richie. Stan was utterly terrified.

“Stan-” Richie clinged to the rests of his common sense and held back from rushing to hug his friend, not wanting to do anything against his will.

“I said, take it off.” Uris completely ignored him and walked up to him. He grabbed him by the edges of his shirt, but was stopped by the slim arms, that kept his t-shirt on it’s place.

“What’s wrong with you, Stan?” Richie sounded more irritated than he intended to, but this whole situation, his behaviour, it all slowly drove him nuts. He then asked, but something told him he already knows the answer. “Why should I?”

Stan huffed letting go and rubbing his face with his hand.

“If- if what you’re saying is true, and I really have this- this- “ He started speaking quickly, stumbling on words and circling his hand around his right side which made him stop for a moment. He took a deep breath and continued “If we’re really soulmates, then you should have one too. And I should be able to see it.”

The silence fell between both of them. Stan was standing in the centre of his room, hugging himself, almost like he tried to guard himself from the world, not looking at anything specific. Richie on the other hand was gawking on him with his eyebrows furrowed. He hadn’t thought about it before. Not once had this crossed this mind, that this thing was mutual. If Stan had one, Richie had one too.

He gulped. If Richie Tozier was sure about one thing - it was that he didn’t want to know how he’s going to die. He didn’t want to agree, he wanted to try and convince Stan that it wouldn’t change a thing, his own fear was taking over him but there was something else and was now screaming at him louder than any time before. His conscience. How could he now refuse to do what Stan is asking him for if he himself didn’t give Stan any chance?

Richie took a deep breath and licked his lips, that were now as dry as a bone.

“Okay.” His voice felt so odd in his mouth, almost like it was someone else who said that. Stan shifted in his place, turning now to him as he watched him closely with a hint of hope in his eyes.

_Oh my god, he still hopes it’s a joke._

Richie closed his eyes and took off his shirt, standing now with his right side facing his friend. He waited. He didn’t know what for, though. For Stan to start laughing and saying that he knew all along he was just kidding? For him to start punching him, blaming him for being his soulmate? For his fucking mouth that can never shut the hell up?

“No.”

Richie opened his eyes slowly, not being prepared for what he may see.

Stan was covering his mouth with his hand, his other fist was gripping his own shirt. His chest was running, up and down, in very fast pace making him shake in no seconds. Hot tears were escaping his big eyes, burning their way down his face.

“No no no.”

He repeated time and time again before he bursted out of the room. Stan ran straight to his bathroom, shutting the door behind him and automatically locking them. He barely made it to the toilet but even throwing up on the floor wouldn’t bother him in that very moment. After he emptied his stomach, he didn’t feel much of relief, everything actually felt heavier than before.

Loud bumping on the door and shouts from the other side seemed so distant for Stan, he couldn’t focus on what Richie had been screaming. His vision was blurry from the tears that haven’t stopped running even for a moment and his mind was occupied with the image of a small bottle drawn on the pale skin.

Stan let go of the toilet and started to back away till the moment he hit the wall. He slid down, bringing his legs close to his chest and burying his face in his knees.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He dreamt, like everyone, of meeting his soulmate and he would lie if he said that he didn’t hope it was Richie. But he was prepared for never being sure as he knew what kind of a burden this information brought with itself.

Alcohol and suicide. They really made a great a couple. Fucking Romeo and Juliet.

He let out a bitter laugh and new wave of anger ran through him.

Till the very last moment he hoped that Richie was just joking, no matter how hard he had to convince himself that even Richie ( _especially Richie_ ) wouldn’t be able to joke about such thing. That didn’t stop him from crossing his fingers in expectation for his friend to finally say “got you!” which never came. No matter how much he needed that, there was something that Richie didn’t know, _couldn’t know. The razors_.

Stan got up, first on all four as he tried to steady his shaking limbs, then on his legs, and approached the sink, wiping the tears. He looked in the mirror with disgust, seeing his eyes all red and swollen. The thought of punching it and never having to look at himself again ran through his mind, but he brushed it away, only opening the cabinet behind it. He searched through the small bottles, not minding that he pushed some of them and made them fall, until he found white package of pills where he hid them from his parents. Loud sobs escaped his mouth as he tried to open it with his trembling hands.

“Fuck.” he whined, when he finally succeed and few tiny silver blades fell out the bottle. He closed his eyes and had to get hold of the sink in order not to collapse.

That was an impulse. The day he bought them. One moment he was walking down the aisles with the strict shopping list in his hand and the next the small package of those was laying quietly in his shopping cart. He was thinking about it a lot before, though. He heard about self-harming, about how it’s supposed to give one a relief from the pain in his mind.

It’s been years and he still hadn’t been over this whole It thing. He had had nightmares that made him wake up in the middle of the night with a scream dead in his mouth. He couldn’t look at himself without seeing the scars circling his face and laughing at him. He couldn’t get himself to trust again, even though he tried his hardest. It all messed with him and he, with his rational and logical way of thinking, couldn’t comprehend this and make everything work again. It drove him crazy that he no longer had control over his mind.

He couldn’t count how many times he was sitting on the verge of his bed or in his bathtub with one forearm exposed and inviting while holding the razor in the other. He cried every time, but never did the final movement. He called himself weak and pathetic for not even trying, not being strong enough to release himself. Every damn time when he gave up, he put them back in the package with a quiet “ _next time_.”

This decision had even worse impact on him that he could ever expect. Along his nightmares about It, there appeared new ones, full of blood and regret.

With time passing, he stopped peaking into the bottle, finding new strength in believing that he, even while having the easy way so close and available for him, can do much better without it, that he _decided_ not to. He knew he was only twisting the facts around, but as long as it worked, he was content with that.

And all of that was now gone.

A yell escaped Stan’s mouth in an unsuccessful attempt of relieving some of the tension that was clutching his heart in a deadly grasp. He grabbed the silver blades from the sink, not paying attention to small cuts that appeared on his fingers and drew blood, and threw them into the open toilet. He flushed the water but the razors were still dancing on the surface, too light to drown. Stan started to furiously pull the flush but it didn’t help too much as the water didn’t have enough time to refill the tank. He just shut the flap resigned and sit on it with his face in his hands.

Banging on the door never stopped but now it seemed louder and louder. Richie was close to break them down with his bare fists probably. Stan didn’t really feel ready to face him, not being able to handle the truth about himself wasn’t helping him with bearing the one about his friend. If it wasn’t for those stupid marks…

Stan quickly took off his shirt and turned around so he could see his back in the mirror. Still no sign of the tattoo, but irrational thought creeped into his mind. He brought his hand to the place Richie pointed just a few hours ago and started scratching. At first slowly and somewhat lightly, but with every intrusive thought in his mind he put more strength into it until the scratches became yanks. Tears blurred his vision again but he saw the pink lines changing into red cracks and after a moment he felt warm liquid coming down his back.

The door swung open with a loud cracking noise, revealing Richie standing there, panting. He only managed to shot one look at Stan before bursting into tears and rushing to him to pull him into a hug.

“Don’t you fucking dare do anything like this ever fucking again.” he whispered into his ear, trying his best not to tighten the embrace too much. He moved his hands up the trembling body until he heard a hiss from his friend and he felt his body stiffen. He eyed Stan’s back in the mirror and to his dismay he saw what he managed to do. Shiver went down his spine when he noticed that the razor on his skin was now all covered in blood. Richie hid his face in the crook of Stan’s neck not being able to look at it anymore.

“Please, Richie.” Stan said shakily after a moment, raising his own arms to put them on Richie’s shoulders and almost hang on him. He was exhausted. “Please don’t let me do this.”

“I won’t.” Richie answered firmly, which surprised him a bit; he didn’t expect himself to be this sure in the moment like this. “I won’t ever let anything happen to you. I promise.”

* * *

 

Richie brought Stan to his bed and tried his best to calm him down. It wasn’t too hard though, he was utterly exhausted with all this crying, the moment his head touched his cold pillow his eyes closed and his chest slowly steadied. Richie tried to at least clean the wounds on Stan’s back and cover them so he can sleep in peace.

When he finished, he sat there watching his friend’s, his _soulmate’s_ , calm face, almost angelic. He probably won’t ever forgive himself for his mouth being a reason for all of this.

“Richie?”

“Sleep, Stan. You need to rest-”

“Promise me that you won’t drink. Ever again.”

At first he didn’t know what Stan had in his mind. He furrowed his eyebrows wanting to ask what did he mean by that, but the sudden realization made his heart sink and the words died in his mouth. He let out shaky breath.

“Is that what you saw?” he asked, fighting back his tears.

He noticed that Stan opened his eyes, but didn’t turn to look at him. He only nodded.

Richie brought his hand to his mouth and bit on the back of it, trying not to break down. _That’s some kind of fucked up irony_ , he thought to himself.

“Come here.” Stan’s hoarse voice called him once again. He turned around to see that the other boy is shifting on the other side of the bed, making a space in front of him. He almost immediately rushed there and curled up like a beaten puppy and let his friend hold him from the back. Stan pressed his face to Richie’s head, breathing slowly and deeply.

“You have to promise me, Richie.”

“I do, Stan.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find and shout at me here: http://stan-ur-is-my-son.tumblr.com


End file.
